


Enemy Teases Every Minute In My Mind

by elsha



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Affairs, Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Angst, Betaed, Crime AU, Divorce, Drug Addiction, Ex's With Benefits, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Marriage, Merlin is mean, Power Play, Same-Sex Marriage, no magic, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsha/pseuds/elsha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Merlin cocks his head to the side, his eyes wicked and his smirk even more so. “Well, I’m meant to be staying at the Savoy.” His foot is now running up the inside of Arthur’s trouser leg towards his thigh causing his body to spark. “But…” He bites his lip a little and Arthur swallows as Merlin’s foot brushes over his groin.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“I’m sure I can accommodate you,” Arthur says slowly.</i></p><p> </p><p>Crime AU. In which Arthur is a Chief Police Inspector who scares the shit out of everyone, Merlin is an ambitious Interpol agent and Gawain’s the rookie who is too nosy for his own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enemy Teases Every Minute In My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely no knowledge of The Metropolitan Police or Interpol, this plot is purely imagination and of course Merlin is not owned by myself. To all Gawain fans he doesn't actually feature that much only at the start and a bit at the end but I just love using outsider POV for Merlin and Arthur.
> 
> EDIT: A huge, enormous thank you to Justcatchme24 who came across this fic and was kind enough to give it the big clean up it was in need of. You can find her on tumblr [myhandsarenotmyown](http://myhandsarenotmyown.tumblr.com).

Gawain leans over to Mithian after the meeting. “So, Pendragon, what’s his story?”

 

Mithian gives him a look, sharp and snappish. The kind of look a woman in a job surrounded by men is used to giving. She’s the kind of girl who would whack you over the head with a stapler if you asked her to get you a coffee.

 

“Why're you asking?” She says, brown eyebrow raised because Gawain may be the rookie and only been working in this office for seven months, but he’s heard the whispered rumors about Pendragon. That apparently he began working in MI5 when they offered him right after university but when SIS offered him a place, he quit and moved to the Met as a way to flip them off. Maggie down in Admin says he was in Special Forces and worked with the CIA post 9/11, and apparently worked on Black Sites in Poland, Thailand and Kazakhstan before the media and the government hit it like a bucket of shit and he was dishonorably discharged. Gale in Forensics says he’s apparently been fucking the Commissioner’s wife for the last eight years, but the big boss man still plays golf with him on the weekends and is hoping to put Pendragon up as his next Deputy. Jeremy, one of the volunteers, says Pendragon’s been offered a promotion sixty-eight times, but he always refuses and apparently his Father owns some big stockbroker company and is buddies with the Mayor and is responsible for twenty-six of those offers but Pendragon and he haven’t talked since the Inspector was sixteen.

 

 Aamir in Computing insists the guy’s been married twice, both divorced; the first he’d apparently beat from time to time before he left her for another woman who worked at The Royal Ballet as a costume designer, who then left him for his best friend. Sounds believable but then Aamir goes on about how Pendragon is secretly a serial killer who goes after other serial killers; it would explain Pendragon’s aggressive tendencies and how the guy looks like a fucking brick wall most of the time. But Aamir’s story sounds like something out of Dexter.

 

Though Gawain wouldn’t be surprised if Pendragon would snap one day and kill everyone, he has that indifferent, stoic and cold look about him, not the creep that always smiles at really fucked-up moments. He goes for the odd cases, and yeah, the man is a fucking genius but he’s aggressive and fast, has no empathy and never deals with the witness himself, always sends some schmuck like Gawain to do it.

 

According to Greta in Human Resources, he’s been sleeping on and off with some French woman from Interpol all the way through his marriages (she thinks he’s had three and there was no domestic abuse, they just leave him because he’s emotionally constipated) but Gawain's seen gals from Interpol drop by and Pendragon’s paid them no attention at all except the same cold and blatant expression of ' _you’re a fucking idiot,_ _get the fuck out of here before I kill you'_ every time they speak. 

 

The only thing Gawain knows is Pendragon got done for Police battery and manslaughter and walked away with nothing but a slap on the wrist because he’s got the Commissioner in his back pocket and every one else is completely petrified of him.

 

But then again he’s the best fucking Chief Inspector in the Met and solves more crimes and catches more people (dead or alive) than any other officer on record even though he’s a suicidal bastard most of the time.

 

But yeah it’s his fucking saving grace.

 

“All I know,” she says and yeah she’s breathtakingly beautiful and Gawain had tried to get in her pants in the first few weeks but she called him out on his bullshit before dumping her paperwork on his desk ‘cause he’s the rookie and all, “his personal life is a waste land. He’s got no family, no friends, no relationships at all, he never comes into work with a clean shave, he's drunk sometimes even high. The guy's a disaster zone but he’s the best at his job and that’s all we should care about.” She turns back to her computer and begins typing. “Though I heard he’s got a nine inch cock,” she says offhandedly and Gawain chokes on the crappy instant coffee he’s drinking.

 

“Right,” he says and goes right back to the work he’s meant to be doing.

 

-

 

Gawain is bored as fuck.

 

Right this second he’s doing nothing except spinning round on his chair answering phones. Inspector Cenred King, the fucker that he is, is taking the lead on a new investigation and because he’s Gawain’s superior, he can boss him around and force him to stay while he takes everyone else out to the scene. It is eleven am and Pendragon still isn’t in yet, probably went to see Cenred wasn’t fucking up the case and leaking anything to the media. A nineteen-year-old girl has gone missing and they’ve been on the case since last week; since she’s legally an adult, they're hesitant about what to do, she could have up and left on her own, the evidence hints to that after she quit university and all her lecturers and friends confirm that it’s genuine, but her parents want her reported as missing.

 

Pendragon doesn’t want the information to be given to the media in case she isn’t in fact missing because then it would be an embarrassment on his end, but then again if it is a kidnapping or murder, then it’s a cock-up, but Gawain isn’t surprised the man is choosing his pride over ethics. They’d given the information to Interpol but the organization being the stuck-up fuckers they are probably won’t get back to them till Christmas.

 

Gawain stops spinning in his chair abruptly when he notices a young man, maybe late twenties, standing in the office. He wears an expensive-looking suit and a black woolly coat to battle the February winter in London, with a red cashmere scarf around his neck, his nose slightly pink. He’s talking on the phone and Gawain realizes that instead of the London accent the man is speaking in rapid French.

 

He’s tall, skinny like a pole and slight. He looks like some skinny male model off of the runway, with his pale unblemished skin and accented cheekbones.     

 

Since no one else in the office is approaching, Gawain guesses the bastards are leaving him to act as the receptionist. He approaches the man, catching the tail end of his conversation.

 

“Je ne devrais pas être long.”1

 

Gawain clears his throat but the man pays him no mind, just continues his conversation.

 

“Excuse me,” Gawain says so loudly he’s pretty sure some of the admin people over at the copy machine are laughing at him.

 

The man turns dark blue eyes at Gawain and the gaze itself feels extremely condescending.

 

“Un moment,” the man speaks into the phone and Gawain hears another voice muffled through the speaker. The man’s eyes look Gawain up and down for a moment before he answers. “Je ne sais pas – un connard. Je vous appellerai demain.”2

 

“Ciao,” the man says hanging up, pocketing it and raising an eyebrow.

 

Gawain panics. Shit, if the man doesn’t know English, he’s fucked; the only thing he can remember from his school French classes is hello, goodbye and that Frère Jacques song.

 

He clears his throat nervously. “Can I help you?” He says it slowly and loudly and prays that the man at least knows a bit of English.

 

The man’s expression reminds him of Pendragon’s whenever anyone offers a theory on a case, mostly aimed at Cenred, Gawain only gets it on occasion.

 

Surprisingly the man in fact doesn’t answer in broken English; instead he speaks it perfectly, he speaks in a posh regional accent straight out of Surrey, like something out of a James Bond movie, though there is still a slight French caress to the words, but barely noticeable.

 

“No, not really.” The man looks ready to walk away.

 

“Are you lost, are you,” he takes in the man’s professional and neat demeanor and the case file in hand, he looks like he could be in government, “looking for accounting?”

 

The man doesn’t take this to offence luckily but he still looks at Gawain like he’s a total idiot. “Interpol sent me.”

 

“Shit, that was fast.” Gawain then flushes when he realizes he said that aloud. He’s just amazed because it usually takes a better part of a year to get a response and then eventual information. You don’t get someone coming down in under a week.

 

“I-I,” He says, trying to stutter out an apology.

 

“There’s no need,” the man answers and his half smile looks sweet but deadly. “I’m sure you’re used to hearing it all the time.”

 

Fucking stuck up Interpol assholes.

 

The man isn’t smiling anymore, he’s on his phone, back to ignoring Gawain completely. And he seems to know which one is Pendragon’s office.

 

“The Chief Inspector should be back soon,” Gawain says without even knowing if this is true.

 

As if by magic and thank fuck for that, the door to the department is opening and in comes Pendragon with Cenred and Mithian on his heels.

 

The Chief Inspector is sporting a thick five-day stubble, his skin ghastly pale as always, noticeable bags under his red-rimmed eyes. He is busy flicking through something and doesn’t look up from the file as Gawain sidles nervously beside him. “Someone is here to see you, sir.”

 

“It can wait,” Pendragon says in his way of telling Gawain to shut up and fuck off.

 

“But it’s someone from Interpol about the Elena Gawant case, er, sir.”

 

Pendragon slams the file closed, regarding Gawain coldly. “It can wait,” he repeats.

 

Pendragon goes to walk off again and Gawain, god help him, blocks his way, and the man looks ready to rip his head off.

 

“He seems quite adamant, sir.”

 

That gets Pendragon’s attention but Gawain doubts it’s because of the Interpol man’s impatience.

 

Pendragon chucks him the file he’s holding and Gawain scrambles to catch it.

 

The man is still standing outside Pendragon’s office, clicking away on his phone. When he looks up and sees Pendragon, his face breaks into a bright smile (holy shit) but Gawain can’t see Pendragon’s face.

 

“Arthur,” he says delightedly and Pendragon moves forward and for a second Gawain thinks they are going to embrace. Instead they kiss, one on each cheek, a usual European greeting but it still surprises Gawain because Pendragon rarely even gives a handshake.

 

“It’s good to see you,” Gawain still can’t see the chief inspector’s expression but the man sounds sincere, polite, maybe they’re old friends from university or secondary school. “Thank you for responding so quickly.”    

 

“It would have been faster if you came directly to me,” the man says and oh god, he’s telling Pendragon off yet how is he standing there with his balls still intact.

 

Pendragon clears his throat, opening the door to his office and holding it open for the man.

 

They enter the office, closing the door leaving Gawain and the rest of the office in complete shock.

 

-

 

“The flight was horrible,” Merlin tells him as he slips off his coat, scarf and jacket. Arthur doesn’t try and stop him, he just goes to sit in his chair, watching Merlin as he toes off his shoes, stretching like a cat. “I hate flying Atlantic,” he says tiredly.

 

Arthur’s not too good with small talk but Merlin knows that. “Whiskey?” he offers.

 

Merlin tuts. “Still drinking all hours of the day, very bad of you, Arthur.” That’s not a no so he pours Merlin two fingers as he sits, pausing when he feels Merlin’s foot brush his leg as he does.

 

“Your file, Elena Mary-Anne Gawant, aged nineteen and five months, 5 foot 9, blonde hair, blue eyes, white British,” Merlin says flipping though the file rather absent-mindedly; it is just another file to him. He must have gotten so used to seeing files on missing kids that he just saw them as a regular occurrence and hassle.

 

“She flew from Gatwick to Genève airport,” his natural French accent caressing the Swiss word, “at 0915 on the 3rd of February, alone, before renting a silver Ford Focus 09 registration. She drove to Lausanne, dropped off the car before taking the 1255 train to Nice, French police and eyewitnesses confirmed seeing her with a white man in his late-thirties 6 foot 3. We’re running all possible matches, flight lists, trains and passport IDs to see if there’s anything."

 

Merlin sighs, closing the file, he’s still speaking in his business tone but he doesn’t move his foot from Arthur’s leg. “A lot is going to come up, we need to wait til we get more on this man til we can track him, most of the in-depth eyewitness accounts are conflicting but that isn’t a surprise.”

 

Fucking eyewitness accounts - the blessing and the bane of every detective’s case. “Did anyone report her looking harassed or distressed?”

 

Merlin shakes his head. “No, most witnesses believed them to be a legitimate couple.”

 

Arthur sighs, running a hand through his too shaggy hair then moving to rub at his stubble. “Where are they heading to now?”

 

“I have people on it,” Merlin says. He looks good but then he always does, much neater and cleaner cut than Arthur; though they’re in basically the same field, they work for very different people. For Merlin to get taken seriously, he needs to look this good or people won’t think he’s as smart or serious as he is. Arthur just needs to turn up some time in the day, no one giving a shit how he looks as long as he catches the next criminal. “The second they get more information on this guy, you can make your move.”

 

Had Arthur been a different, younger and more naïve police inspector, he would believe Merlin’s statement, but Arthur knows better. What he knows is the second Merlin gets wind of this guy, he’s going to try and bring him in on his terms, so he’s the one that looks good and gets the reward.

 

Arthur ignores the uneasy feeling that rises along with his frustration slowly building to anger that isn’t calmed by the whiskey. “Do you have a photo of this guy, anything I can show to family or friends?”

 

“If I had a photo, I’d have the guy’s name on the file, Arthur.” Merlin doesn’t sound like a smartass punk like those usual guys from Interpol when he says it, probably because Arthur knows Merlin’s just trying to help him in his way.   

 

“Surely you have footage.” Temper gets the better of him as he snaps the words out. He downs the rest of his whiskey; getting himself another and noticing Merlin hasn’t touched his.

 

Merlin surveys him for a few seconds before replying, “you know how foreign police can be.”

 

“Well, tell them to get a fucking move on.”

 

“Arthur, you need to relax,” Merlin says, voice even and calm, and it just makes Arthur angrier at being spoken to in such a way, like a child.  

 

“I will when this is done,” he practically grunts out. 

 

Arthur’s anger has never stopped Merlin speaking his mind before. “You’re taking this case to heart.”

 

“I don’t want to hear it,” Arthur says dangerously glaring at Merlin, but the man is hardly fazed.

 

“Arthur,” Merlin says, voice soft.

 

“I said,” he says, his voice dangerously low, hovering with the effort to keep his temper, “don’t.” Merlin seems to know not to push any further.

 

Arthur buries his face in his hands with a loud and drained sigh. Morgana had only been nineteen at the time when it happened to her. She’d met someone at university too – Alvarr had been the same age as her and he’d convinced her to elope with him when Uther had refused to let them marry. Of course the fucker had known how rich they were, are and was hoping to set himself up for life doing a quick con. Arthur had been a rookie at the time. He hadn’t rested a day of those three months till he had Morgana back safe and sound. But Alvarr the slimy fucker had only got five years. So yes, Arthur is taking this personally and if all goes well, this other guy will be getting twenty-five years if he has his way.

 

Arthur knows Merlin’s moved because he can no longer feel the comfortable pressure of his foot on his leg. There’s the scrape of a chair and the sound of Merlin moving and then Arthur can feel delicate hands pressing on his shoulders, fingertips digging into all the muscles that are clenched up.     

 

“You’re tense,” Merlin breathes into Arthur’s ear, his fingers massaging at the tight muscles and Arthur’s hands drop, his head leaning back, eyes closing like he can’t help it as Merlin’s fingers find a particular tight knot at the nape of his neck. 

 

Fingers run over Arthur’s stubble. “When’s the last time you shaved?”

 

Then the hands are coming up to run themselves through Arthur’s hair, and his head goes forwards with the movement. “And god, your hair!” Merlin laughs.

 

Arthur catches one of Merlin’s hands, holding it close, his thumb caressing the knuckles, feeling the familiar soft skin til he comes to the cold feel of metal. “I thought you’d have learnt to take care of yourself by now,” Merlin says, no doubt smiling fondly.

 

Arthur looks at the plain silver wedding band for a few moments, not touching it, just looking. It suits him, with his slim fingers and pale skin.

 

Arthur drops Merlin’s hand, clearing his throat as he turns his attention back to the file. “The second we know all the facts, I want them both taken to the nearest British Embassy.”

 

Merlin takes that as defeat and moves back to sit in his chair.

 

“I’m not being fucked over by your people again.” Arthur’s tone is all business.

 

Unlike Merlin, who isn’t taking the brush off easy, just raises an eyebrow. “You don’t trust me?”

 

He’s an ambitious little shit, always has been. Doing whatever it takes to advance his own career. “I trust you to fuck me over the second it suits you. So that your senior officer will give you that promotion you’ve been trying for since the day you bent over his desk.”

 

“Charming.” 

 

“Fuck with me again, Merlin,” Arthur says, voice hard, expression no longer pleasant, “and I’ll break you.”

 

Of course, Merlin always has to have the last word. “I like the sound of that.” There's something utterly filthy in his eyes, his long, thick, dark eyelashes fluttering as he moves his foot back to press against the side of Arthur’s shin. It’s complete temptation and it is something Arthur gives into the second he asks: “Where is it you’re staying?”

 

Merlin cocks his head to the side, his eyes wicked and his smirk even more so. “Well, I’m meant to be staying at the Savoy.”

 

His foot is now running up the inside of Arthur’s trouser leg towards his thigh, causing his body to spark. “But…” He bites his lip a little and Arthur swallows as Merlin’s foot brushes over his groin, he can feel himself growing hard. 

 

“I’m sure I can accommodate you,” Arthur says slowly, and Merlin rewards him by clenching his toes adding the pressure and friction to his erection.

 

“Good.”

 

And then Merlin’s foot is gone and he’s getting up again, hands on the back of his neck as he stretches. “I really need to take a shower, get out of these clothes.”

 

Arthur licks his lips, his eyes latching onto Merlin’s neck, unblemished pale skin just begging to be marked. 

 

“You’ll need the key,” Arthur says, reaching into his pocket.

 

“I still have my spare,” Merlin gives him a teasing look, “unless you’ve changed the locks?”

 

“No,” Arthur answers shortly. 

 

Merlin grabs his things, throwing Arthur a wink as he reaches the door. “Well, I’ll see you later then.”

 

Once the door closes, Arthur once again buries his head in his hands, suddenly realizing what a mistake he’s most likely made. He tries to concentrate on reading the file but eventually thinks what the hell and grabs Merlin’s untouched whiskey and downs it. He’s going to need it.

 

-

 

Arthur stays in the office til ten. He always stays til this time; he much prefers it to work late than early, so when he eventually gets back to his penthouse in Battersea, it’s coming up to half past.

 

The place seems untouched when he gets in through the lift, but then he notices the keys with the trademark and worn keychain lying on the counter. Arthur suddenly is bursting with the déjà vu at the scene. He goes to grab a beer from the fridge to stuff the feeling down only to start when he does so. For the first time in six years, the fridge is stocked full with all sorts of food, some Arthur had forgotten existed.

 

“I ordered some shopping,” says a voice behind him and Arthur turns to see Merlin with wet hair, wearing nothing but one of Arthur’s pale blue shirts, sleeves rolled up, collar open so Arthur can clearly see more pale skin. The shirt itself is far too big on Merlin’s frame and comes down to the mid length of his thigh, a cigarette is also propped between his lips, a scratched up silver zippy light in his hand. “There was only beer and frozen hot-dogs, really, Arthur.”

 

“Well you’ve certainly bought enough to feed a small army,” Arthur says, glancing back at the fridge, grabbing a beer from amongst the milk and orange juice.

 

“You still drink Heineken, don’t you?” Merlin says moving around the kitchen and reaching for the glasses like he never left. They’re up on the high shelf and Arthur doesn’t bother to hide his gaze as he watches the shirt ride up Merlin’s thighs as he goes up on his toes. “I stocked the cave as well. The cellar was the one thing that didn’t need restocking, of course,” Merlin says pulling out a wine glass. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says, indicating the wine bottle.

 

“What do I owe you?”

 

Merlin waves the statement away with his hand as he pours himself a glass of wine. “You gave me a shower and a bed for the night, that’s payment enough.”

 

Still so goddamn stubborn, but Arthur lets it slide; he can’t be bothered starting an argument he can’t win. He goes to open the beer bottle on the edge of the island only to hear Merlin make a noise of disapproval. He grabs something from a drawer and hands Arthur over a bottle opener. “They don’t make them for fun, you know,” he says, cigarette still dangling between his lips.

 

Arthur takes the zippo lighter from Merlin’s hand, never looking away from his eyes even as their fingers brush. He flicks it to flame, watching as Merlin angles his cigarette, fingers brushing Arthur’s to tilt it for a light. He puffs out smoke, slender fingers holding the filter as he takes a proper drag, inhaling the smoke and holding it there for a few seconds, and exhaling in one breath of smoke. Arthur watches and wants.

 

“I can’t believe you still have that,” Merlin says indicating the lighter.

 

Arthur flicks it shut, enjoying the sound. “First thing you ever gave me.”

 

Merlin bites his lip, taking another drag before passing the cigarette over, propping it between Arthur’s lips, his thumb rubbing briefly over Arthur’s jaw and then walking off to the couch.

 

Arthur can taste Merlin on the cigarette and savors it along with the taste of menthol smoke. He opens his beer before joining Merlin on the other side of the couch.  The second Arthur sits down, Merlin’s feet are in his lap, his face pouting at Arthur.

 

“I’ve been walking all morning in airports, I’m feeling delicate.”

 

Arthur shakes his head but nonetheless puts down his drink, the cigarette in the cheap ashtray Morgana got him, wrapping his hands around Merlin’s foot, his thumbs pressing into the sole. Merlin’s tense at first like he’s just waiting for Arthur’s touch but he relaxes into it the second it’s there.

 

“How was your flight?” Arthur asks, but this time he cares about the answer.

 

“Ghastly,” Merlin whines, shifting slightly to get comfortable then he’s moving awkwardly to reach for the cigarette. “I was stuck next to some boisterous, inept American suit. I much prefer it when I have to take the train, that way I can get some work done in peace.”

 

He takes a quick drag. “They want me to fly to Brussels next week because I’m the only person in the department available that reads Flemish. It’s a pain, you’d think recruits would have learnt by now and got some interns in that studied foreign languages,” Merlin sighs. “I’ll probably just drive though if I can get my way.”

 

“You will,” Arthur answers.

 

Merlin rolls his eyes then nudges Arthur with his free foot. “What about you?” He asks, sounding like he’s back in grammar school.

 

“What about me?” Digging his thumbs into Merlin’s arch and watching his toes curl deliciously.

 

“Don’t be evasive Arthur, it’s a very unattractive quality,” Merlin says through an exhale of smoke.           

 

Arthur can’t help but shake his head. “Nothing.”

 

“Nothing?” Merlin says with a raised eyebrow, chewing at his thumbnail, “I don’t believe that for a second.”

 

Arthur just concentrates on pressing his way up Merlin’s arch til he’s pushing his foot forward for more. The sound of Merlin’s nails scraping at leather has their eyes locking.

 

The stare each other down for a few seconds, Merlin’s breathing slightly heavier, shakier. Finally Merlin nudges his other foot at Arthur.

 

Arthur gives this one a final slow swipe with his thumb, smirking at the shallow and badly muffled gasp it elicits from Merlin before moving onto the other.

 

“What about that girl?” Merlin asks, taking a sip of his almost empty glass of wine.

 

“What girl?”

 

“The pretty brown-haired one, on your team?”

 

Arthur inclines his head, the only reason he knows who Merlin’s on about is because Arthur tends not to recognize the faces or know the names of the three people outside his team. “What of her?”

 

“Are you sleeping with her?” Merlin asks frankly and his tone sounds casual, no underlying jealousy that he can detect.

 

“Unlike some, I don’t sleep with colleagues.” Merlin pushes his foot further into Arthur’s tight grip.

 

“Hmm.” Arthur is unsure if it’s a sound of agreement or encouragement.

 

“You should try it some time, it might prove to be useful.”

 

Arthur’s eyes flicker up to Merlin as he pauses in his task to watch the man light another cigarette. “I like where I am,” he states.

 

“That makes one of us,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes. “And you hate your job, Arthur, you only do it because you’re fucking brilliant at it.”

 

Arthur shrugs.

 

“I, on the other hand, have to climb a ladder to get to where I want to be.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“Solitary work,” Merlin states. “I’m tired of all this teamwork bullshit and sharing the cred.”

 

Arthur gives a half-formed bitter smile. “You never were good at sharing.”

 

Merlin shoves Arthur with his foot. “That was more your line of work, lover," he teases. The light catches his hand, which is lying over the back of the sofa, and Arthur’s eyes follow it until he sees the ring. The hand nearest moves from Merlin’s foot to slink across the back and intertwine Merlin’s fingers in his. The younger man doesn’t fight this, he even smiles peacefully at it.

 

Arthur’s fingers play with the ring, twisting it easily on Merlin’s finger. “Why are you wearing this?” he asks, not expecting a serious answer.

 

“Well it’s far nicer than the others,” Merlin says, looking at the ring, pursing his lips. “You always did have good taste.”

 

“You still have the others?” Arthur says latching onto the first statement, some undercurrent of possession in his tone.

 

“God, no,” Merlin laughs, “I sold them the second I filed the divorce papers.” 

 

Arthur smirks inwardly at the fact his ring was the one Merlin kept. “Who was he then?”

 

“Oh,” Merlin gasps, “he was lovely, you would have hated him.”

 

“Really?” Arthur says, eyebrows raised.

 

“Alator,” Merlin laments, “Scottish, late fifties, lawyer, the whole thing lasted eight months,”  Merlin tells him. “He snored," he says, making a face.

 

“So, shorter than Edwin.”

 

“Yes,” Merlin nods then takes a few moments to think through a drag. “That was a year then another year of marriage, but then he was a banker, so he was far easier to get on with and no annoying family.”

 

Arthur snorts. For Merlin and Morgana, it had been love at first sight compared to Arthur’s previous wives discounting one. Morgana had adored Merlin and Arthur knows the two still keep in touch and no doubt go for lunch whenever Morgana’s in Paris or Lyon.

 

“Then there was an utter cock of a police inspector,” Merlin sighs. “My friends,” friend Arthur corrects silently Freya, she’s the only person except Arthur, Merlin’s mother and Morgana who could put up with Merlin, he did have a friend named Will once when he lived back in the UK but they had some big fall out that Merlin never talked about and the two haven’t spoken since, “were convinced he was a serial killer and would murder me in my sleep.” Merlin smiles at Arthur. “He was my first marriage, broke my heart.” Arthur rubs back and forth over Merlin’s palm.

 

“I seemingly remember you filing the divorce papers.”

 

 “Yeah, well,” Merlin shrugs, “I hate being beat to the punch.”

 

Arthur chuckles lightly but the truth is, it still hurts to talk about, hell it hurts to think about. It’s taken a toll on Arthur’s life given he was fucked up before him and Merlin ran into problems, but it probably left him the most shattered. The last six years of his life have been nothing but alcohol, depression and work with the occasional nighttime company thrown in. 

 

And here’s Merlin looking like it was just another fling for him. But it never stopped for them. Even when he saw Merlin fifteen months after he left, divorce papers signed and done, he came back to Arthur’s doorstep with a bullshit file that an Interpol intern could have easily delivered only to spend the next seventy-two hours not leaving Arthur’s apartment.

 

They do this from time to time. Merlin will come to town every few months or weeks depending on work and he’ll come back to Arthur's place and they’ll spend the next few days screwing. Call it fucked up, because, yes, Arthur’s still utterly and completely in love with this man, but if they tried anything else, he knows Merlin would freak, thinking they’d cock it up again like they did their marriage.

 

It’s because of the kind of people they are, Merlin’s prepared to do anything for his career, though back in the days they were together, never did they once cheat. But when Merlin got the offer from Interpol to go live off in Lyon for a higher up job he was ready to take it while Arthur was adamant to stay in London.

 

And that was the breaking point for them. They were two people who were so in love with each other but were too stubborn to back down.

 

Most of Arthur’s life that Merlin somehow managed to heal by magic shattered to pieces when he left and Arthur’s life relied heavily on booze and obsessive cases like it had before. It was a mess and he’s a mess now, worse than he’s been since Merlin turned up after fifteen months, but Merlin doesn’t seem to care, he’s still looking at Arthur like he wants to devour him.

 

“Maybe I should marry a girl next?” Merlin says interrupting Arthur’s thoughts.

 

“Have you even been with a woman?” Arthur asks.

 

Merlin bites his lip. “Once in lower sixth out of curiosity, let’s say I won’t be repeating that experience again.”

 

“Besides,” Merlin says, stubbing out his cigarette. “I much prefer being fucked, there’s something very controlling about it.”

 

Arthur returns to pressing his finger into Merlin’s arch at one point quite roughly. “At least only three marriages to your four—god right there!” Merlin suddenly gasps out at the hard pressure and Arthur continues til Merlin gives a whimper, his own arousal becoming more noticeable since the moment he saw Merlin in that goddamn shirt of his.

 

“You mean my four disasters.”

 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself – god,” he splutters out, pushing his back into the couch so he can straighten out his free hand gripping into the back of the couch.

 

“I must admit that last one wasn’t bad.”

 

“Of course not, I’m fabulous, don’t stop now, you prat.”

 

Arthur stifles a snigger, his hands moving up to grasp Merlin’s ankle. “Well let’s see, there was Sofia which lasted all of a week-”

 

“To be fair, you were only twenty at the time, and from what I heard, you turned up for your wedding ceremony completely piss drunk, which, in my opinion, would have been very entertaining to see,” Merlin’s voice is cut off with a strangled moan when Arthur’s fingers press into his hamstring.

 

“Do your legs need attention too?”

 

Merlin’s too busy trying catch his breath to answer. “Then there was Gwen,” the one woman he actually thought he could make it work with. That’s the catch though, Gwen put up with the late nights from work, the obsessive cases bleeding into weekends, the drinking, the unexplained weekends spent at extravagant hotels in London seemingly alone. Til Arthur finally came clean about the fact he’d been having an affair with an intriguing spitfire of a London-Interpol agent almost all the way through their relationship. Gwen had a confession of her own, of course, that she’d started to sleep with his best friend Lancelot a few weeks into their marriage. So they made an arrangement - Arthur would continue seeing Merlin while Gwen saw Lancelot and in public still pretend to be a couple so Arthur wouldn’t face another embarrassing divorce that would have his estranged father furious. Honestly the only reason Arthur kept it up was because of the hellish paperwork it would have caused. But then Lance and Gwen wanted to get serious and Arthur gave them his blessing and that was that. He is still a close friend of theirs.

 

“I like Gwen,” Merlin states out of breath, yes, no doubt Merlin keeps in touch with the two of them, Gwen and him were, are close and the situation hadn’t changed that. “Yes, well that lasted a cracking second place of just over two years,” Merlin claps, laughing with mock glee.

 

“Then we come to the whore bag,” Merlin states. Yes, neither Morgana or Merlin or Gwen or anyone in fact had been a fan of Vivian. Another gold digger mining her way into Arthur’s life that had lasted a few months. In fact, the divorce had been Merlin’s fault, since he and the girls had planned the whole thing as an act to get rid of Vivian. She’d walked in on him and Merlin right in the middle of sex and with no way of not knowing what they were doing. Of course Vivian was prepared to ignore it, but when Merlin threatened to go public, she eventually left with the help of a handsome settlement.

 

“Not one of my finest moments,” Arthur says, the whiskey he’s been having all day now mixing with the beer and wine Merlin’s poured him starting to take a much stronger effect. “No,” Merlin agrees.

 

“Then,” Arthur starts.

 

“Then,” Merlin sighs.

 

Arthur watches Merlin closely. “Four years, almost fourteen years technically, on and off.”

 

“Is that how long it’s been?” Merlin says and Arthur nods, leaning forward and one of Merlin’s knees bend to give him room, his foot pressing flat against the couch. “But then you think about married couples who spent most of their lives together, who grow old together.”

 

“That’s not us,” Arthur states.

 

“No,” Merlin agrees again.

 

“It could’ve been though,” Arthur says moving forward til he’s nosing at the pale flesh of Merlin’s kneecap. “We could’ve done it the way it’s supposed to, maybe it would have made us happier.” Arthur wishes he had that happiness back.

 

Merlin stays quiet, just watching Arthur as he presses a kiss to his knee, trailing his lips hotly over that flesh he knows is sensitive. Merlin’s hand comes round and wraps in his hair, not pushing or pulling, just there as Arthur makes patterns with his tongue.

 

“I miss it,” Merlin says, a breathy quality to his voice and Arthur’s eyes lock to Merlin’s pupils blown wide, his lips not leaving Merlin’s skin. “I miss you touching me whenever you feel like it.”

 

Arthur trails his lips up the inside of Merlin’s knee, pushing the leg he’s holding til it’s against the back of the sofa, his fingertips skimming over the other, and Merlin widens them to make room for him. It’s like this sometimes, slow and gradual, full of talk and laughs of old times. Others, there’s no talking, there’s just speed and heat, all about closeness, harder, faster, rough want.

 

This time is just as intense but it’s needier like they’ve both been starved of each other too long. It makes them more vulnerable, their emotion completely laid bare for each other to see. But then Arthur will wake in the morning to Merlin dressed once again in his suit, sipping at a coffee, airplane ticket in his pocket, ready to go back to his life, on his phone chatting away in a language Arthur can’t understand, before planting a quick kiss on Arthur’s lips and walking out like it’s nothing. But then again sometimes he’ll stay a day or two longer if he can afford it with work and they’ll just repeat the same cycle over the next few days.

 

They say things that they never bring up again; at least they don’t sit down and discuss them like Lance and Gwen probably do. That was never their style. If Merlin was pissed, he could go for days, giving Arthur the silent treatment before he finally got it out of his system. Arthur has a slightly less healthy way of dealing with his emotions, which involves drinking copious amounts of alcohol and throwing things like breakable items and fists against walls. But it worked for them and that wasn’t the final straw in their marriage or anything like that, in fact there was no such thing. Merlin had a choice and he chose his job; Arthur had a choice too and he chose his job.

 

“I always feel like touching you,” Arthur says, moving up, his hand still gripping Merlin’s thigh, moving close so he can skim his nose along Merlin’s arm still resting on the sofa.

 

“Even when I’m not here?” Merlin asks, hand still gripping Arthur’s hair.

 

“Especially then,” Arthur says, delighting in Merlin’s groan as Arthur presses into him. They’re both hard, no doubt dragged it out too long, and it’s close to midnight, and Arthur doesn’t want to think about how much time that gives them. Maybe Merlin will stay longer, maybe not.

 

Merlin isn’t the type to give soft, gentle kisses, not when he’s this desperate and Arthur doesn’t hold back, just keeps kissing him till his lips are swollen red and messy. It gives Arthur the peace of mind that Merlin won’t fade.

 

Merlin turns away, gasping while Arthur trails dirty little kisses along his jaw down to his neck, sucking and licking, moving onto more pale unblemished skin with the goal to change that.

 

“You’re not,” Merlin pants, fighting to get his breathing under control, his fingernails digging into Arthur’s scalp, a hand pushing on Arthur’s shoulder, but he doesn’t stop. “You’re not seriously going to screw me on this couch, are you?”

 

Arthur only registers the question a few moments after hearing it. “Would that be bad?” He asks, rubbing himself against Merlin’s thigh with his movements. It makes him feel kind of like a teenager, making out and humping on the couch, which he is the furthest thing from. Unlike Merlin’s thirty something age that has as of yet to catch up with him.

 

“I’d just,” Merlin says, hooking his leg around Arthur’s waist, “prefer a bed with less leather and jean chafing, if that’s not too much to ask.”

 

Arthur allows himself one last nip of Merlin’s collarbone before getting up and dragging Merlin with him.

 

He means to aim for the bedroom, but then Merlin’s pushing him against the wall, lips crashing back to his. It will never fail to amaze him how quickly Merlin can get through shirt buttons, he must have good practice and then that leads Arthur to some not very nice thoughts.

 

He growls, shoving Merlin in the direction of the bedroom. It’s a bit touch and go at first, but they eventually make it with Merlin pushing off his shirt, sucking on Arthur’s tongue. Arthur has less luck with the buttons on the borrowed shirt; he fumbles blindly while Merlin laughs against his lips, his hands now on Arthur’s belt.

 

“Slow down,” Merlin whispers, millimeters away, unfastening Arthur’s belt and flies.

 

“You’re the one in a rush,” Arthur grunts when Merlin pulls on the fastening of Arthur’s jeans deliberately. Merlin turns so Arthur is being pushed down on the bed, straddling him. Merlin always has liked to have most of the control, it comes from years of having to fight tooth and nail to get to where he is.

 

Arthur gets impatient, gives up on saving the shirt and just goes for ripping the first few buttons so he can sink his teeth into Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin gives a cry, easing off with a moan as Arthur begins to lick the mark. “Okay,” he huffs “new plan,” shoving Arthur back, unbuttoning the rest of the shirt, and throwing it off somewhere in the room, leaving him completely bare.

 

Arthur, of course, isn’t having that at all, flips them over, ignoring Merlin's noise of discouragement. “Wait,” he says, voice sharp with warning. Merlin whines but nevertheless stops his movements.

 

Arthur skims finger tips along Merlin’s pronounced ribs, he’d always been so fucking skinny, pressing harder when he gets to his abdomen, ignoring Merlin’s mewl. His other hand is tracing one of Merlin’s hardened nipples, only half paying attention to Merlin’s responses.

 

He traces around Merlin’s navel, hand dipping further still til he reaches Merlin’s erect cock dripping out precum, giving it one long tortuously slow stroke that has Merlin choking out,“Arthur!”

 

Making Merlin beg is going to take a bit more than that. His fingers trail over Merlin’s balls, smooth skin till he reaches his hole only to find it slick and loose.

 

“You filthy bugger.”

 

Merlin just smirks with that same wicked smile, but it doesn’t last long as Arthur slips a finger in. Merlin’s eyes flutter closed, his lips parting as his pink tongue comes out to wet his lips. “You were gone so long,” Merlin gasps out, “I had to entertain myself some way.”

 

Arthur slips in another finger, thrusting them in and out a few times before searching out Merlin’s prostrate. The second Merlin’s arm snaps out to grab the back of Arthur’s neck, inhaling sharply, Arthur knows he’s found it.

 

Arthur waits patiently as he continues to fuck Merlin with his fingers, scissoring the two. “You know what you need to say.”

 

Merlin shakes his head, red lips bitten, one of his hands that’s not still holding onto Arthur grasping the sheets, his knuckles white. “Fuck you,” Merlin snaps, but with no real bite as Arthur adds a third.

 

“I could just keep going,” Arthur muses before leaning forward to suck at one of Merlin’s nipples.

 

“You fucker!” Merlin screeches. “Fine, please fucking hell Arthur, please, fuck—“

 

“Hush,” Arthur interjects, gripping at the base of Merlin’s cock; his own is ready to burst still in the confinement of his boxer shorts. He tortures Merlin a little while longer before removing his trousers.

 

Merlin’s hands are down in an instant to help, it’s a little awkward and he can hear Merlin laughing in his ear as he fumbles with the last leg, kicking them off.

 

Arthur reaches for a packet of lube, biting at it to open, spilling it all over his fingers to slick himself up. “I,” Merlin says his arms around Arthur’s neck. “I’m still clean, since the last time.”

 

“Good,” Arthur grunts watching the silent trust shining through Merlin’s eyes. He only sees that kind of thing in moments like this. When Arthur pushes in, Merlin wraps around him tight. Arthur strokes his sides in an effort to relax. But fuck it’s hard to concentrate when his cock is being gripped so tight.

 

Merlin’s panting in his ear when Arthur withdraws to fuck back into him slowly, just at first but a few thrusts later, Merlin’s dragging him up with force, his nails beginning to dig into the back of Arthur’s neck. It’s hot and tight and Arthur can’t help but fuck into him faster and harder.

 

Merlin’s legs lock around Arthur’s waist, turning his head into the pillow, his moans punctuated by Arthur’s thrusts.

 

One of Arthur’s hands grips at Merlin’s hips, digging in bruises while the other slams into the headboard. “Arthur,” Merlin chokes, “come on.”

 

Sweat building up on their bodies, Arthur reaches between them, grunting with the effort, stroking Merlin’s cock fast and hushed til Merlin gives a cry, fluttering tight around him. Arthur comes in a rush, biting down on Merlin’s exposed neck to muffle his own sounds. He thinks about it in the back of his mind, every little slip Merlin makes radiates his true feeling. He’d like to think he was a mask of indifference, but in this moment when Merlin’s guard is completely down, Arthur can see that Merlin still does feel the same.

 

Merlin is still wrapped around him, not quite letting go yet. When Arthur meets his eyes, Merlin stretches forward for another kiss, sucking on Arthur’s lower lip. His legs must be cramping but still he holds him in til Arthur moves off, reaching for his cigarette packet.

 

Merlin cuddles into his side even as Arthur lights his cigarette. The damn lighter is cheap, out of a corner shop, when he finally lights his damn cigarette, he throws the thing across the room in frustration. Merlin is still looking blissed out even as he unconsciously traces invisible lines on Arthur’s chest, Arthur’s own eyes catching sight of the wedding ring as he does it. He doesn’t know why this is bothering him so much.

 

Arthur stubs the cigarette on the wood of his table, making soot and scorch marks; luckily Merlin is still too lost in the post-orgasm haze to have the energy to pout and scold.

 

Just as Arthur is debating on attempting to get a few winks of sleep, Merlin leans over him, licking at Arthur’s jaw. He supposes that’s his answer.

 

-

 

Arthur doesn’t get much sleep that night, not because of round after round of sex, but because really he doesn’t sleep much. Merlin, on the other hand, sleeps like the dead, always has. The only annoying thing is he moves from position to position. One moment he’ll practically be lying on top of Arthur, then the next he’ll be curled into a ball on the furthest edge of the bed. 

 

Right now, Arthur is stuck in the former position attempting to wriggle out from under him. Merlin just gives a soft whimper before turning around, burying himself deep in the sheets.

 

Arthur gives a sigh, sitting on the edge of his bed, running his hands through his messy hair, looking back at Merlin’s sleeping form, the scratches on his back starting to sting slightly.

 

Arthur grabs a pair of trousers as he exits the bedroom to go to the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of vodka because he needs it, because he can’t get that fucking wedding ring out of his head. The whole time while Merlin was riding him, arms wrapped around Arthur’s neck, he could feel the metal digging into his skin, it just made him want to fuck Merlin harder, hear him scream in pleasure.

 

Could it be Merlin’s cryptic way of saying he wanted to start things up again or is he just using it as another advantage in his workplace?

 

Arthur drinks three glasses before he breaks.

 

He looks through the medicine cabinet til he finds a bottle of pills labeled Diazepam, bashing them to dust on the sink then organizing them into two lines. He reaches into the back of his pocket, finds a few ten-pound notes, rolls one of them up and lowers his head, snorting the white dust.

 

He rubs his nose at the familiar, uncomfortable feeling. He meets blue, red-rimmed eyes in the mirror, a slightly gaunt-looking pale face in the reflection. Merlin’s right, his hair has become unkempt and shaggy, but he never had the time in between work to get anything done about it, not that he cares. The grey hairs are harder to see, especially in his stubble but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

 

Arthur waits for the calming effect of the drug to kick in, all while he stares at his bare ring finger. He can still feel the note rolled between his fingertips and that interrupts his musings. He’s not going to owe Merlin anything; if this is strictly pleasure, then he’s not going to allow his ex to have one over him.  

 

Merlin is still sound asleep as Arthur goes back to his bedroom into the walk in closet full of clothes, mostly the suits he hasn’t worn in years. He can’t remember where his wallet was last, but it’s bound to be in here somewhere amongst the clothes.

 

He reaches a particular black suit jacket, too formal and pristine for anything he wears now. He’s rummaging through the pockets when his fingers come into contact with something cold, round and metal.

 

He withdraws his hand, opening his palm to see a silver wedding ring identical to Merlin’s except in size. He is pretty sure he remembers throwing the thing off the balcony into the Thames the day after Merlin left. He makes a split second decision sliding the ring on his finger, feeling nothing but cold.  

 

He finds himself back in the kitchen, making toast and coffee while drinking the remainder of the vodka. The clock reads 09:08 and employees are expected to be in work by half-past, not that he ever is. His team are resigned to the fact he doesn’t come in any time before eleven. And the commissioner is resigned to everything he does; Arthur doesn’t get any problems at all just as long as he keeps catching bad guys.

 

As he’s pouring the coffee a mobile starts ringing and Arthur doesn’t recognize it as his own unless Morgana’s messed with the ringtone again. It turns out to be Merlin’s phone and Arthur answers it without a moment's thought.

 

“Hello.”

 

He’s greeted by a man. He sounds young, speaking something in French. Arthur doesn’t understand, but he hears Monsieur Emrys in there somewhere and guesses the obvious.

 

“Right,” Arthur answers rather gruffly. Walking to the bedroom, holding a phone, a plate of burnt toast and coffee proves a challenge, but Arthur makes it without scalding himself.         

 

He sets the breakfast down on Merlin’s side, knowing from experience he’ll need the coffee as soon as he gets up. He crawls back into bed, phone in hand, shaking Merlin gently. Merlin moans in distress, turning, blue eyes fluttering open in confusion. He looks perfectly beautiful and fuck, Arthur’s missed this, Merlin’s expression, free of schemes and unguarded. Arthur hates to break through that.

 

“Phone,” he whispers, passing it over to him. Merlin groans quietly before clearing his throat.

 

“Oui,” he says, voice suddenly too damn perfect and formal for this time in the morning. He hums along with whoever is talking, nodding. He lies on his stomach and it’s the perfect position for Arthur to lie next to him, kissing his shoulder, soothing the marks he left last night.

 

Merlin doesn’t let on a thing. ‘Non, Je peux m'en charger,3”he replies then hangs up the call.

 

Arthur continues kissing Merlin’s shoulder even as the man remains silent.

 

“That was my assistant, Jacques, he said they found your girl.”

 

Arthur freezes.

 

“Apparently she ran off with one of the PhD students from her uni, a guy looking for a quick pay.” Sounds familiar. “She finally got her wits about her, contacted local police in Marseille, not before we locked her location, of course.”

 

Of course, Arthur thinks bitterly.

 

“She’s on the first flight home and will be ready to debrief in the morning, your gentleman is going to be a lot harder.”

 

Arthur had expected this much, he just doesn’t like hearing it. “What do you want?” He asks, moving away and letting Merlin reach his coffee.

 

“Why don’t we talk about it after a shower?” Merlin replies, not waiting for Arthur’s answer as he walks into the bathroom.

 

Cold sets in Arthur’s mind. He knew this would happen; at the end of the day, Merlin always cares more about his work than anything else. It fires up Arthur’s anger.

 

Arthur fucks into him quick and hard against the cold tiles, Merlin gripping him tight everywhere, water raining down them til it turns cold. Arthur hopes it washes away this feeling, but luckily the drugs are kicking in, so he doesn’t feel as angry as he should be anymore.   

 

Afterwards, when he comes back into the kitchen, still only wearing trousers, Merlin is fully dressed, all of Arthur's marks hidden by his clothes as if nothing happened. He clicks away on his phone for a while, then finally looks up, looking at Arthur like he had back in that office. “I hope you’ll be kind in your report,” he smirks, “I’ll call HQ and have him on the first flight.”

 

Arthur jaw clenches. “Last I heard, promotions don’t happen over night.”

 

“Well,” Merlin says, pursing his lips, “I suppose it helps to be sleeping with the man who makes that decision.”

 

Arthur gives himself a few moments to fight down the blaze of anger, but the next second he’s throwing a glass against the wall. Merlin doesn’t even flinch.

 

“This is how it works,” Merlin tells him, his eyes zoning in on the ring Arthur now has on his finger. “It always has.”

 

Arthur doesn’t believe it but that malicious look in Merlin’s eyes only feeds the anger.

 

“It’s a good way of scaring people away,” Merlin tells him matter-of-factly, “people aren’t going to quiz me about my fucked excuse for a marriage, but if I had a picture of a child in my wallet, that would be a different story. In my kind of job, you need something like this,” he sighs, not looking at all sorry.

 

“It’s a façade, Arthur, that’s all.”

 

Merlin turns to walk out, but not before Arthur’s grabbing his wrist and backing him against the wall. He kisses him hard and rough, and Merlin has little choice but to give into it, and he does willingly, and Arthur gets a small satisfaction that he can still get that reaction out of Merlin; no matter what, Merlin will always want him, always need him. Arthur ends the kiss violently, pushing Merlin back into the wall hard. Maybe the flash in Merlin’s eyes is fear, maybe realization that he’s pushed Arthur too far.

 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Arthur’s voice is cold and dangerous. “I think you like how it makes you feel, you like it when people look and see that you’re already taken.” Arthur pushes forward, his face close to Merlin’s, looking into his astonishingly blue eyes. “And you are mine, Merlin, always have been, always will be.”

 

He moves back abruptly, leaving Merlin on shaky legs, slipping down the wall slightly. It’s the last expression he sees - shock, guilt, hesitance, no longer a mask of flirtation and self-confidence. But it’s perfect, it's Merlin, completely him, nothing else in the way. It is the first person to ever speak against him in a case meeting and it’s the man he married. But hell, he’s going to be in love with Merlin no matter what he does. 

 

Arthur turns and listens for the door closing. When it does, Arthur’s fist clenches tight, the metal ring now warm, digging into his skin. He doesn’t take it off.

 

-

 

Pendragon comes into the office at noon, which Gawain must admit is a new record. He looks as shitty as he did yesterday except angrier, which Gawain thought would kind of be impossible since they caught themselves a criminal and rescued the girl and everything. Pendragon stinks of booze and his pupils are far too dilated, cigarette smoke sticking to his clothes. 

 

He doesn’t halt in his stride, just snaps gruffly, “you three. Office. Now.”

 

Gawain along with the other two jump to do so.

 

Pendragon’s already at his desk, rummaging through files. He throws something at Cenred and the guy looks very alarmed.

 

And Gawain was having such a good day and all, now he’s going to be brutally verbally beaten by Pendragon. “I won’t settle for anything less than twenty years on this guy, you make this fucking meanest, shit fest of a report, I don’t care if you bring up him cheating on his third year girlfriend, just do it, I want all the filth on this guy, every last bit.” Cenred because he’s a fucking chicken flees the office as soon as Pendragon’s done, but not before he’s bumbling out affirmatives.

 

Pendragon’s steel cold eyes don’t even lessen when they turn on Mithian. “I want an Interpol report and recommendation for Mister Emrys, fucking sugar coat it all you want, even give them fucking diabetes, I don’t care if you have to do redraft after redraft for the next two months, I want it pristine.” Mithian doesn’t look as frightened as Cenred, but she does look pinched, like she’s trying to hold a neutral expression, and she’s just as thankful as Cenred to be dismissed.

 

“Lott,” Pendragon snaps and Gawain does not jump, definitely not, as Pendragon fixes him with an unpleasant gaze that he’s pretty sure could murder a puppy. “I want you to write the fucking best, most detailed and precise report of your life, you’re not leaving this building til that’s done. And if you miss out one detail, I’ll personally make sure you stay in uniform for the rest of your working life.”

 

Gawain nods jerkily. “Just one small query, sir?” he splutters out.

 

Pendragon gives him the most murderous look the man has ever given him. His voice is low and dangerous, confirming Gawain’s theory on the man being a serial killer: “Get the fuck out of my office, Sergeant.”           

 

Gawain scampers out as quickly as humanly possible. Great, as the rookie he gets the hardest bit of work.

 

If there’s one thing Gawain now knows about Pendragon, it's that the man is a soulless, evil, bastard devoid of any sort of human emotion.

 

Of course Gawain doesn’t notice the wedding ring til the following Friday.

 

FIN?

**Author's Note:**

> Translation
> 
> 1 - I won't be long  
> 2 - One moment....I don't know - some asshole. I'll call you later/tomorrow  
> 3 - No, I can handle it. 
> 
> (If there are any mistakes let me know I'm relying on my A level french)  
> Feedback would be lovely.  
> 


End file.
